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“We won one and lost one. It’s almost like we lost two because we didn’t make it to the finalround.”
“Here’s how I see it: while you were supervising six Baden students—and their parents—no one got drunk or high on prescription painkillers, no one set the school on fire, no one caused a spectacle, no one got pregnant. That’s worthcelebrating.”
Wes grins, and the simple gesture has a disproportionately large effect on my chest. “Well, by those standards, it was a rousingsuccess.”
I take a breath because, somehow, I’m short on oxygen. “Beck told me he wants to be anactor.”
“It’s good he told you. I don’t think he talks much aboutit.”
“No, but he toldyou. He trustsyou.”
Even if Wes isn’t the cuddly type, he’s the rare kind of earnest that makes you want to believe in basic humandecency.
Wes cocks his head. “You have to trust someone. Human beings are social. You keep everything under wraps, you destroy yourself a day at atime.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and slings it over one shoulder as I drag my finger along thelockers.
I pull up in front one. “This was mine. Sophomore year, Evan Hatcher carved my name and a heart intoit.”
And a dick, but that’s beside the point. If it was a request it went unanswered, because we only dated threeweeks.
I take in Wes’s face. “Why do you look sosurprised?”
“I’m not surprised some boy carved your name in a locker. I’m surprised there was onlyone.”
Despite his wry expression—or maybe because of it—the words slice my heart. “I don’t sleep with every guy I meet,Wes.”
He curses. “That’s not what I meant.” His throat works as if he’s trying to come up with the right words. What comes out it, “Friday was amistake.”
The pain spreads from my heart to my ribs, an ache I know won’t go awaysoon.
“You’re right—it was a mistake. Because you don’t do casual. And I’m busy enough dating guys from yourapp.”
The words spill out, as if saying them quickly will convince me they’re true. Make me forget I still wanthim.
I still wantWes.
I ignore that thought and force a smile. “We’refriends.”
“Friends.” He holds up a pinkie finger, his gazesolemn.
We link fingers, and I know the word’s a lie. For me, if not forhim.
Because somehow this simple connection is more intimate than what happened the othernight.
A group of laughing students comes around the corner. Wes drops his hand but his gaze is electric on mine. “Want to get out of here?” hemurmurs.
Those six words kick-start my heart. There could be a million kids streaking naked through the halls, and I wouldn’t notice. Nothing matters except the anticipation in hisexpression.
“What’d you have inmind?”
18
Wes
“You’ve been holdingout on me,” Rena accuses as I push open the door and flick on thelight.
I look around the place, remembering my reaction when I first saw it. The open-concept living room and fancy kitchen. The leather couch. The chandelier over theisland.
